


there's nothing wrong with me (loving you, baby)

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: All I'm gonna say is, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Humor, I'm a tease and I'm sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: “Mr. Hargrove,It has come to HR’s attention that you have, once again, used company property incorrectly.  Please refrain from using the break room as a work out facility during your lunch hour.  If you are in need a gym recommendation, I'm happy to provide you some.  Remove your weights from the lower cabinets at your earliest convenience.Regards, S. Harrington”This isn’t the first ridiculous email Steve has had to send to Hargrove, and Steve sincerely doubts it will be his last.





	there's nothing wrong with me (loving you, baby)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts).



> I should be writing the final part to chapter 12. I should be filling out a cover letter for a job app. I should be applying to grad school. I should be sleeping because I work a double in four hours. 
> 
> Whoops.

Steve’s always been a people person.  He’s made a living out of it-- sales at his dad’s company back in Small Town, Indiana, customer service in the million and five other jobs he’s had since, and now in the HR department at Indianapolis’ largest tech firm.  Human Resources, as it turns out, is a lot like customer service, but for the employees.

With the added benefit that Steve frequently and gleefully gets to tell people _no_.

He likes his job.  He’s good at it.  While he’s not the smartest cookie in the _Oreo_ pack, he knows the lingo, he knows the rules, and he can handle any manner of person.  

Except for William G. Hargrove.  

Ever since Hargrove started working in data analysis up on the 87th floor, Steve has been second-guessing his decision to come work for Hopper-Newby.  Because every morning, like clockwork, Steve comes in to find a complaint on his desk and a minimum of three emails.

“Why don’t they just fucking _fire him_?” Steve groans as he slumps into his seat, coffee cradled to his chest carefully to avoid staining the soft cashmere of the blue sweater his mother sent up for Christmas.  

“He’s good with numbers,” Jonathan shrugs from where he’s lingering by Nancy’s desk on the other side of the office space from Steve.  “It’s hard to find someone reliable and good with numbers.”

Steve grunts, takes a hefty pull from his mug, and wishes there was something a bit stronger in it than the fancy organic creamer Nancy insisted on stocking in their mini-fridge.  

It becomes quickly apparent, as Steve browses through his emails and the complaint sitting by his keyboard, that this particular issue will take a more direct approach than usual.  With a sigh, Steve sets his coffee aside, and scooches up under his desk, rocking his head from side to side.  He doesn’t want a headache this early in the day.

Pulling up a new email draft in his window, Steve ignores the lovebirds behind him, and sets to fixing the Hargrove Problem.

_“Mr. Hargrove,_

_It has come to HR’s attention that you have, once again, used company property_ _incorrectly.  Please refrain from using the break room as a work out facility during your lunch hour.  If you are in need a gym recommendation, I'm happy to provide you some.  Remove your weights from the lower cabinets at your earliest convenience._

_Regards, S. Harrington”_

This isn’t the first ridiculous email Steve has had to send to Hargrove, and Steve sincerely doubts it will be his last.  

As usual, the reply is almost instantaneous.  If anything, at least Hargrove is prompt.

“ _Harrington,_

_Sorry about the weights and shit taking up too much space from Stacy's INCREASINGLY large cat mug collection. I'll start keeping them at my desk instead._

_B.H._

_P.S. you don't seem the type to go to the gym. I'm picturing a bean pole with too big glasses who got shoved around too much in school with the way you talk.  Forgive me if I don't buy in to whatever gym you might recommend."_

If Steve wasn’t so offended, he might actually laugh.  Jonathan has complained about Stacy’s cat mugs a few times before too.  

He tries not to fidget with his glasses out of pure self-conscious habit.

_"Mr. Hargrove,_

_Please refrain from using that kind of language in formal emails with other employees.  While I won't draw up a complaint, others may not be so lenient._

_Please REMOVE your weights from the premises. Do NOT keep them at your desk. Do NOT use them on property._

_Thanks, S. Harrington”_

Then, out of pure spite, Steve adds a quick:

_“P.S. Your loss. The place I go to has cheap rates and free massages on Wednesdays."_

This, Steve will come to realize later, is his first mistake.

***

Steve spends a lot of his time at work drinking coffee, handling interpersonal complaints, and organizing policy training sessions for new hires.  

He also spends a considerable amount of time fielding emails from and about Hargrove.  

In the month since Steve had emailed Hargrove about his unprofessional use of the office break room, Hargrove had seemed to get it into his head that Steve was someone worth talking to.  Or, at the very least, someone worth bothering when he had down time.

“ _Understood, Harrington._

_B.H._

_P.S. you’ve got some fire in you, don’t you?  I like it when you get all bossy.”_

The amount of animal related memes he’d received in his inbox had become both outlandish and atrocious.  

Steve tells him so.  Everytime he sends a new one.  

So, when a new complaint rolls in, not long after an impromptu fire evacuation, Steve tries to pass it off to Nancy.

“He won’t listen to me,” Steve insists, almost on his knees begging at her feet, but that would ruin the press of his slacks.  “I _know_ he won’t listen to me.  He probably won’t even read my email if I send it-- he’ll just think I’m bouncing back another one of his stupid fucking chain mails.”

Nancy’s nose scrunches up.  “Call him, then.”

“What?”

“Call him,” Nancy shrugs a shoulder.  “Give him a verbal warning.  We don’t have to do it often, but it might do the trick.”

Steve frowns down at the complaint in his hand.  “You think so?”

“Definitely,” Nancy nods. “Besides, he might just be a misogynistic dick.  HR isn’t known for male employees, you know.  He might not be listening because he thinks you’re a woman-- which, please, don’t get me started-- but if it works, it works.  He might back off once he knows you’re a guy.”

“That’s--” Steve falters.  “That’s actually not a bad point.”

“I know,” Nancy beams, then gestures him back toward his own desk.  “Go on.  I’ve got work to do too.”

Settling back into his chair, Steve hunts Hargrove’s info out of his contacts.  He plucks up his phone, hesitates, and then dials in the extension for Hargrove’s desk.

It rings twice, and then _clicks_.

“Body Disposal Services: you stab ‘em, we grab ‘em.  Who can I bury for you today?”

Steve blinks.  “Um.  Is this… William Hargrove?”

“Oh, shit.”  There’s a clatter on the other end of the line and another curse.  “Shit, yeah, sorry.  I was expecting a personal call.  This is Billy Hargrove.”

“Mr. Hargrove,” Steve clears his throat, wet his lips, and glances down at the report in his hand like it might help him find his words.  “This is-- this is Steve Harrington.  From HR.”

“ _Harrington_?” Billy repeats back, then barks out a laugh.  “No, shit.  What can I do for you, man?”

“I’m-- I’m calling about the recent fire evacuation caused by an employee smoking in the men’s restroom.”

“Oh?  Got any leads?”

Steve sighs.  “Mr. Hargrove, smoking areas exist in this building _for a reason_.  This is the third false alarm this month.”

“Shit, really?”

“Really,” Steve says.  “So, either use the smoking area, or learn how to disable the alarm before you light up.”

There’s a pause.  Then a laugh.  

“I _knew_ you weren’t just a stick in the mud, Harrington.” Billy says, and Steve thinks he might be smiling.  “Any tips?”

“They’re battery operated.  It’s not rocket science.” Steve says, then hisses as Nancy pegs him in the back of the head with a crumpled up piece of paper; when he looks at her, she’s got that face that says _what the hell are you doing?_ and Steve quickly realizes his own misstep.  “Uh.  Have a good day, Mr. Hargrove.  We’ll see you at the workplace policy refresher tomorrow afternoon.”

As he’s hanging up, he hears the distant, groaned _fucckkk_ of the Damned who are Cursed to Repeat Policy Training and has to stifle a laugh.  He turns to face Nancy when he’s finally got ahold of himself, and she’s still giving him the judgement face.

“What?” he asks.

“I can’t believe you just told him to _disable the fire alarm_ , Steve, oh my god.”

“It just slipped out!”

“Maybe the phone call was a bad idea,” Nancy sighs, shaking her head, but she’s already turning back to her work.

She doesn’t know how right she is.  She really, _really_ doesn’t.

***

The first time Billy calls Steve’s line, he’s asking a genuine question that still makes Steve want to pull his own hair out:

“What’s company dresscode?  Because I’ve been wearing the same shit since I started working here, but I keep getting dirty looks from that kid who works down in IT.”

“Dustin?” Steve asks.

“Nah, not Henderson, he’s chill.  The other one.  The angry twink.”

Steve nearly spits up his coffee.  “ _Mike_?”

“That his name?”

“Oh, my _god--_ ”

“Anyways, that’s not the point.  I can wear jeans, can’t I?”

“As long as there are no holes and it’s a Friday.”

“Well, shit.”

***

The second time, it’s worse:

“ _No_ , you _cannot_ hotbox the copy room.  You can’t smoke weed on the property.”

“But it’s legal in Indiana.”

“I don’t care if it’s legal in Indiana, it’s against company policy!”

***

The third, the fourth, and the fifth time have Steve convinced he’s going to have a heart attack at the ripe old age of twentyseven.  

***

The sixth time has him taking a very long, very needed break outback, passing a cigarette back and forth with Hopper.  He gets a pep talk out of it and everything.  Hopper’s always had a bit of a soft spot for the dysfunctional members of his staff.

***

But it’s after the seventh time that really does it.  Really sets Steve on a trajectory of No Good and Too Much Trouble.

Billy has called him no less than four times in the last hour.  Each time with a different, inane question that Steve is _positive_ he’s pulling straight out of his employee manual.  

On the fifth time it rings, Steve doesn’t even bother with professional pleasantries.

“Alright, asshole.  You _know_ all of this.  I _know_ you know all of this.  You’ve been to the retraining sessions _six times this month_ .  You do _not_ need me to answer these questions for you.”

“Did you just curse?” Billy asks, after the longest pause of Steve’s life.

Steve wants to snap his phone in two.  “Stop.  Calling me.”

“Jesus, Harrington.” He’s grinning; Steve knows he’s grinning; Steve wants to strangle Billy Hargrove with his phone chord.  “You should talk dirty to me more often.  I think I’m getting hard.”

Face burning, Steve slams his phone down into the cradle.

***

Billy, it turns out, either really likes getting hung up on, or really likes getting under Steve’s skin.  It’s probably both.  Steve wouldn’t put it past him.  He seems like the kind of guy who’d get off on weird shit like that.

Steve only thinks this because, outside of the usual _ridiculous memes_ he spams Steve’s inbox with, he also starts calling Steve’s extension, daily, to attempt to flirt with him.  

“C’mon, Harrington.  What are you wearing?”

If you can even call it flirting.

“I’m not telling you that.”

“If you don’t tell me,” Billy says, and Steve hates that he can tell when Billy is enjoying himself.  “I’m gonna have to guess.”

Steve bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.  

“Tweed?  A sweater vest?  You seem like the type to wear a sweater vest.”

Steve glances down at his chest.  It’s not a sweater _vest_ , but Steve does wear sweaters over his button-ups a lot.  Especially during winter.  

He gets cold.  Sue him.

“Or maybe some stupid patterned shit?  You like paisley?  Or argyle?  I bet you like argyle.”

Steve purses his lips.  He pointedly doesn’t look down at his own feet, even though Billy can’t see him.  

“I’m wearing blue argyle socks,” Steve admits, with some amount of recalcitrance.  

Rightfully so.  Billy laughs at him.  Deep and warm and pleased.

“Oh, Harrington.  How scandalous.”

***

“Hey, so, I _might_ have lost pages fiftytwo to seventyfour of my employee manual, and I was really looking for a refresher on the section about workplace discrimination.”  Billy tells him, one morning, two weeks after this nightmare began-- but Steve is used to it by now.  And he hasn’t had too many complaints recently.  He thinks he’s lucky.  “Think you could read them to me?”

“Read them to you?” Steve’s fingers still on his keyboard, in the middle of an email to some woman in advertising who keeps complaining about the AC temperature in her office.  “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.  Read them to me.”  Billy says, though something’s off in his tone, like there’s something unsure there Steve isn’t used to hearing.  “You know, if you’re not too busy.”

Steve glances at the email-- _Mrs. Hinton, there’s a thermostat on the wall by your door, you can adjust the temperature manually--_ and clears his throat.  “No.  No, I’m not busy.”

“Then, let’s get started, _amigo_.  I need to make sure I’m not discriminating against any of my fellow corporate slaves.”

Steve huffs out a little laugh.  “The first thing I’d tell you is _don’t call_ other employees _slaves._ ”

“And the second?”

“Stop flirting with every skirt that passes by your desk.  The women in these offices are not here to be your eyecandy.”

Somewhere behind him, Nancy raises a fist.  “Right on.”

***

The first time Steve calls Billy, it’s because he’s had a shitty morning that was made even shittier by the receptionist at the front desk not being of sound mind enough to buzz him through so he could clock in on time.  Not only were his loafers ruined from the sudden rain outside, but his glasses broke that morning when his _overenthusiastic_ lab Thor decided they were a toy.  

So his eyes are itching from contacts he rarely uses, he’s grumpy and wet, and Terry at the front desk is too lost in the clouds to identify his face without a pair of black rimmed glasses perched on his nose from his ID badge.

He knows Billy is in.  Knows he’s already up on the 87th floor.  Because that misty eyed dreamy look on Terry’s face was all Billy’s fault.  Billy and his stupid gift baskets.

He doesn’t even give Billy a chance to say hello.

“ _Stop harassing the receptionists_ ,” he spits, not even fully sat down, phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he struggles to tug his scarf off.  “I do _not_ want to have to hire another one this quarter.  We lucked out with the temp this time, and I refuse to let you ruin it.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Billy says.  “Jealous, Harrington?  How do you even know it’s my fault?”

“You use the same pick-up line everytime and buy the same _cheap_ bottle of wine.” Steve plops down, heavy, into his chair, giving up on his scarf.  “You do it every time you want to get laid, and then they don’t come back the next day.   _Stop_ harassing them.”

“It’s called flirting, sweetheart.  Maybe you could use a tip or two.”  Billy says, sounding delighted, and Steve’s jaw winds tight.  “Honestly, I bet you could use some tail.  You’re wound _way_ too tight.”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face and up into his hair.  It stands on end when he’s done.  He hates that Billy is _right_.

“Or maybe _you_ could use a cheap bottle of wine.”

Steve nearly chokes.  “ _First_ , my sex life is none of your business.   _Second_ , you couldn’t fucking afford the alcohol I’d put out for.  Have a good day.”

He hangs up before Billy can get another word in.  Before he can get under Steve’s skin anymore than he already has.  

***

The next day, when Steve finds a gift basket on his desk, he nearly turns around and walks right back out. Jonathan stops him, hand gentle on his elbow, and tugs him over to his chair.

“Hargrove told me to bring this down for you when I came to see Nancy,” he says. “Said you'd understand.”

When Steve plucks out the bottle of wine nestled between the shredded paper and fruits and candies, he looks at the label and slumps down. It's a Sonoma brand. Bell. At least one hundred and fifty dollars a piece.

“Jesus,” Steve says.

***

Steve formally accepts the apology for what it is in an email that afternoon.  He gets a call almost instantly after.

“Expensive enough for you?” Billy asks.

And Steve says: “I don’t like reds.”

Billy laughs.

***

“Steve, I’m begging you, put that man out of his misery.” Jonathan asks, two weeks later, and for a moment, Steve has no idea what he’s talking about.

And then he remembers the conversation he’d had with Billy that morning, that went something a lot like--

“Thank you for calling Human Resources, this is Steve Harrington.  How may I assist you today--?”

“What color is your underwear today, Steve?”

“ _Jesus christ_.  No.”

“Oh, so you’re not wearing any?  You goddamn minx.”

“I did _not_ say that!”

\--and the fact that Jonathan sits in the cubicle next to him.

Steve swallows, the tips of his ears burning, and he offers up a weak facsimile of a smile.  “Sorry?”

But he isn’t all that sorry, and Steve knows it.  Steve knows it, and Jonathan knows it, and Nancy knows it-- because as much as he complains and gripes and groans about Billy Hargrove, he doesn’t do much of anything to stop him.  

Especially not when he gets to have conversations like he has later that afternoon, when Billy calls again, sounding tired and maybe a bit stuffy.

“Talk to me, Harrington.  My head’s screaming at me from all the numbers.”

“What do you want me to talk to you about?”

“Anything.  The fucking weather.  Take your pick.”

Steve hesitates, glances over his shoulder at where Nancy is typing away, and grins.  “Nancy made cupcakes today.  They bounce like rubber balls if you throw them.”

“ _Steve_!” Nancy hisses, and Steve knows he’s five seconds away from getting pelted in the head, but when Billy laughs, it’s so worth it.  

***

The day, two days later, when Steve shows up and doesn’t get a single email, doesn’t get a single phone call, from the 87th floor, makes Steve worry.  He waits, all day, for the usual ridiculousness, and it never comes.  

No stupid meme.  No inane question.  Nothing.

So, when Jonathan comes down at five to take Nancy home, Steve can’t help but ask.  “Was Hargrove not in today?”

“No, he took a sick day.”

“Oh.”

“You good, Steve?” Nancy asks, as she packs her things, and Steve waves a hand.

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m good.  Gonna finish up the new powerpoint document for the orientation meeting tomorrow, and then head out.  See you guys Monday.”

They say their goodbyes and then are out the door.  

And Steve-- Steve does something incredibly stupid, and incredibly unethical.

He goes into the personal files.  Digs around.  Finds Billy’s personal number.

The debate to send a text lasts longer than the actual search through the file room in the back.  But, eventually, Steve taps out a quick message, hits send before he can second-guess himself anymore, and then tucks his phone away.

Out of sight; out of mind.

He doesn’t check it until he’s home, until he’s got Thor slobbering all over him, and when he does, he can’t help but smile.

_\- Hope you feel better.  Rest up this weekend.  S.H._

_\- Knew you cared, Harrington.  I miss you too._

 

***

On Saturday, Billy sends a string of messages about his younger sister _Maxine_.  She sounds like a hellion, and a wildcat, and Steve is content to know that Billy’s at least in good hands.

***

On Sunday, Steve knows Billy is feeling better.  He knows because, of all things, Billy sends him a dick pic.

Steve spends about fifteen minutes freaking out.  About twenty thinking _jesus, that’s actually a really great dick_.  And about five plotting his revenge.

***

On Monday, Steve gets to work early.  Very early.  

He gets a call around nine a.m. and knows who it is before he even picks up.

“I could kiss you,” Billy says.

“I could file a harassment charge.”

“Grope you, then, _jesus_ , Harrington.”  Billy huffs, voice so bright and so filled with amusement that Steve can’t help but hide his smile behind a hand.  “I can’t believe you printed that many copies of it.  How many pieces of paper did you _use_ ?  It’s _all over_ the bathroom.”

“You wanted to share it,” Steve says.  “I was just helping out.”

“Definitely gonna grope you.”

Steve snorts.  “You’d have to find me, first.”

***

The day Steve calls, needing to vent and knowing exactly at who, is the day that changes everything.  Steve doesn’t know it yet.  He just knows that some _idiot_ in IT downloaded a metric _fuck ton_ of porn to the company servers and Hopper is _pissed_.

“Some _idiot_ in IT downloaded a metric _fuck ton_ of porn to the company servers and Hopper is _pissed_ .” Steve seethes, stabbing at his keyboard, even if he knows it isn’t his computer’s fault.  “I have to write up an entirely new section in the sexual harassment course about it and _I’m_ pissed.”

“God, you’re way too uptight, Harrington.  You really need to get laid.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Sorry.  But if you _are_ getting laid, it must not be any good, since it’s obviously not doing much for you.” Billy says, sounding not in the least bit apologetic.  “What do you even do to unwind, Steve?”

“Bikram yoga.”

“What now?”

“Hot yoga,” Steve clarifies, huffing a little as he edits a new slide.  “You know.  The kind in a hot room?  The really sweaty kind?”

“Jesus fucking--” there’s a clatter of a sound, like that first time Steve had called, and Steve frowns.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, jesus, I’m fine.” Billy sounds a little out of breath, a little out of sorts, and Steve can’t imagine why.  “Hey, I tell you about the hot piece of ass I saw on the elevator this morning?  I think he got off on your floor, but _christ_ , the ass on that man.”

Steve’s face colors.  “Okay, non sequitur.  I’ll bite.  How hot is hot?”

“I would certainly take a bite out of it.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually talking to me about this.” Steve mutters, switching ears with a shake of his head and an agitated little jerk.  “Are you seriously gonna start waxing poetic about some dudes ass at me?”

“You didn’t see it, Harrington.  It was a great ass.” Billy says, and Steve feels something twist and burn a little in his belly.  “I mean, I might have to go jerk one out just thinking about it.”

“I swear to _god_ , Hargrove,” Steve hisses, eyes squeezing shut.  “If I get _one more_ complaint regarding you and the men’s room--”

“I mean, I could always just whip it out right here under the desk.” Billy says, voice dipping, dripping with charm.  “Would you talk dirty for me, Harrington?”

“You will _literally_ get fired, Hargrove.”

Billy _moans_.  “Oh, yeah, baby.  Say my name like that one more time.”

“I will report your ass back to sexual harassment training so fast your head will spin.”

“ _Fuck_ , Steve, you know I love it when you threaten me with corporal punishment.”

“That’s not--” Steve blusters, flusters, and makes a small sound at the back of his throat that’s barely human.  “ _Goodbye_ , Mr. Hargrove.”

“Aw, but we were just getting started--”

Steve hangs up.  He’s hot and flush, from his ears down to his neck, and he picks up the phone and slams it down one more time just for the satisfaction.

***

After the porn-on-the-company-servers scandal, Steve and Nancy have their hands full with giving mandatory sexual harassment and misconduct training courses for the entire staff.  Steve spends most of his week in a conference room, tag-teaming with Nancy, and delivering the same spiel fifty different times with the same corny videos to accompany it.  

It’s Thursday when, after Mr. Newby introduces him to the newest round of employees as _Mr. Harrington from HR_ , Steve catches the eyes of the man sitting at the far end of the conference table.  His eyes are incredibly blue and his smile is incredibly distracting-- and Steve tries not to think about it or how badly Billy Hargrove was right when he said he needed to get laid.

“So,” Steve clears his throat.  “The first rule of the do’s and don’ts of sexual harassment and misconduct is: if you don’t want your eightyfour year old grandmother to see you do it, don’t do it in the office.”

The lesson goes like all of the previous lessons went.  Quickly, boringly, and without much fanfare.  By the end, Steve is praying that Nancy is going to be coming up from their floor to take his place soon, and he watches the clock as everyone files out the door after Mr. Newby.

He’s gathering up the information sheets to set out for the next round, when the man with blue eyes clears his throat from the door.  Steve catches a hint of tongue between white, white teeth and feels a rush of heat flood through him.  

“I didn’t actually think you wore stupid sweaters and glasses, Harrington.” He says.  “Color me surprised: you do.”

And _oh_ .  Oh, _that’s_ Billy Hargrove.  

Throat working, Steve straightens out, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly self-conscious in his red sweater and slacks and loafers.  “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I just had a few questions.” Billy says, rounding the table, _prowling_ like Steve might rabbit away.  “Do you really wear argyle socks, too?”

Steve’s nostrils flare as he huffs out a breath, and Billy’s grin goes _wide_.  “Mr. Hargrove, if you don’t have any questions about the sexual harassment training, I suggest you get back to work--”

“Sorry, it’s just--” he wets his lips, comes to a slow stop in front of Steve, and _fuck,_ he’s gorgeous.  Gorgeous in his nonregulation jeans and way-too-tight button-up and shiny, leather shoes.  “I’m much more of a _tactile_ learner, you know?  I don’t absorb shit unless I get a physical demonstration.”

“Hargrove--”

“Like, this.” He puts a hand on Steve’s wrist, big and warm and firm, but not unyielding.  “Is this considered sexual harassment?”

“Not-- Um, no, not necessarily--”

“And what about this?” he asks, hand sliding up Steve’s arm, to his elbow, giving a soft tug that has Steve stumbling forward a step.  

“We really shouldn’t be--”

“This?” he asks, placing his hands on Steve’s hips, pulling him in flush, and Steve feels like he’s about to burst into flame.

“Billy,” Steve breathes, and Billy’s face softens, goes easy, and he reaches up to touch Steve’s face.  

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He’s leaning in, canting his head, eyes on Steve’s mouth and Steve _wants it_ .  He wants it _so bad_.

But then the door is swinging open, and they’re jumping apart, and Steve is smoothing down his sweater while Billy runs a hand through his hair.  

“Thanks for the demonstration, Harrington.  I’ll keep it in mind for later.” Billy says, and then he’s leaving.  

Steve watches him go, feeling way too hot, feeling like his chest is too small for his own breath.  Steve watches him go and thinks _oh, no_.

***

When Nancy finally relieves him, finally lets him go back down to his own desk, there’s an email waiting for him.  Steve settles into his chair, fingers trembling a little, and opens it up.

_“Pretty boy,_

_It has come to my attention that I have, once again, failed to make myself clear.  I thought, perhaps, the gift basket was an overture enough.  Or that, perhaps, the dick pic was a blatant open invitation.  The look on your face today tells me otherwise._

_Perhaps I haven’t been clear enough._

_I would very much like to take you out and buy you very expensive white wine._

_Yours,_

_Billy.”_

And Steve-- Steve laughs, buries his face in his hands for a moment, and then types up a quick reply.  

_“When?”_


End file.
